


I'll Never Talk

by EndOfStoryGoodbyeTheEnd



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 03:32:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6888148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EndOfStoryGoodbyeTheEnd/pseuds/EndOfStoryGoodbyeTheEnd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t even have a chance to wonder why Monty took off before his answer is sliding onto the stool next to him, bringing with her the smell of liquor, vanilla, and gunpowder. He doesn’t have to look at her to know who it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Never Talk

**Author's Note:**

> I had to do an assignment for my Pulp Fiction class with a private investigator interacting with a fast-talking woman or a gangster, and I decided why not have both? It evolved into this. My teacher hasn't gotten around to grading it yet, so any feedback would be greatly appreciated. Thank you to my friend Caty who edited for me!

Sometimes, he really questions his own judgement. 

He’s really a pretty nice person. Sure, he has the occasional drink, and he’s definitely used his gun before, but really, there are worse people out there than him. 

The point is he really doesn’t deserve this shit. 

But, he walks into the rather seedy bar with a certain resolve, because really, he needs information (yeah, that’s it). 

She’s not there yet. He expected nothing less. She waits for no one, hell, she’ll probably be late. Just to make him squirm a bit. Just as well, he could use a drink. 

He sits at the bar and waits for Monty to notice him. As he does, he reacquaints himself to the place he’s spent way more time in than usual. His preferred bar is close enough to his apartment that it’s easy to walk home drunk with no need for the hassle of calling a cab. But, here is on her terms, and her terms is where she likes to be. No matter, he’s adaptable. 

For this reason, he’s become rather accustomed to the dark and unwelcoming vibe the place gives off. It’s a stark contrast to its two owners, who are as friendly and talkative as can be. Sometimes he even wishes they would shut up, but on the whole, he likes them enough to brave the bar. 

Monty pushes a drink at him without even asking what he wants (bless him), and leans his elbows on the bar to look him in the eye. 

“Is she coming?” he asks, his tone low and her name unspoken. Here especially, it carries weight. 

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t be here otherwise.” 

No reason to spare feelings, but Monty seems unaffected. He smiles even. “Good luck,” he says seriously, and then he’s off to the other end of the bar. 

He doesn’t even have a chance to wonder why Monty took off before his answer is sliding onto the stool next to him, bringing with her the smell of liquor, vanilla, and gunpowder. He doesn’t have to look at her to know who it is. No one else would sit with him. He’s a private detective in the middle of gang territory, and he doesn’t look like friendly company at 6’2 and with no friends except for the guy who owns the gym he spends all his free time at. That plus tattoos and racial prejudice make for a pretty imposing first impression, which works in his favor most of the time. 

She hasn’t even opened her mouth to start a discourse when Monty comes flitting over to shove a beer at her. He’s gone as quick as he came. Monty and Jasper’s bar is deep in the middle of gang territory and they have a long standing agreement with Octavia and her brother. They are on good terms, and Monty doesn’t ask for her order either, just knows. 

She grins, grabbing the bottle. “Thanks, Green!” she shouts at the man’s retreating back, and he turns to give her a little pretend bow in response. 

She looks good. She always does. He’s seen her a lot of late, and he’s never seen anyone prettier. She’s deceptively small for a gang leader, a murderer. About half his size, small, pale, and dark haired. She’s dressed in a clingy dark blue tank top covered by a black leather jacket, with dark jeans and knee high black boots covered in zips and buckles. She looks like a normal biker chick, but he’s sure she’s got over a dozen concealed weapons on her besides the gun on her hip. He wouldn’t put it past her to have hidden some small knife in her cleavage.

“Well, what kind of meeting is this one, business or pleasure?” she asks, and the sudden question causes his eyes to flick up to meet hers. They’re bright green and full of something dangerous.

“You ask that question every time, and the answer will always be business,” he responds dryly. 

“Damn,” she says, smirking, tracing a chipped black nail around the rim of the bottle. “Then tell me, Lincoln, what am I here for?” 

He watches her carefully, her reaction important. “Carl Emerson.”

She’s careful. Her body stays relaxed, reclining languidly on the back of her chair, her face passive and unrecognizing. Her finger even continues its lazy track on the bottle rim. It’s in her eyes that he finds his answer. They’re light and green and expressive, the kind of eyes you’d expect to find on a happy child, not a gangster who’d seen more than her fair share of bloodshed. They read with a certain wariness that makes him sure she knows exactly what he needs to know. 

“What about him?” she asks. It would be stupid to pretend she doesn’t know him. It’s her job to know everyone and make sure everyone knows her and knows she’s someone not to be fucked with. 

“Got anything on him?” he’s nonchalant and quiet, because Monty’s drifting ever closer hoping to listen in. 

She laughs. “Oh no. No no no. That’s not how this works, honey, and you know it,” she points an accusatory finger at him. “I don’t do jack shit unless I see a clear benefit for yours truly, and you haven’t presented one. What’s in it for me? The satisfaction of knowing I’ve done a good day's work for the heros and then tuck myself into a cold bed with no company but a bottle of whiskey? Absolutely not. You’d better give me something better.” 

He’s half smiling at her speech, because she’s nothing if not dramatic. “Rumors on the street say Carl Emerson isn’t exactly your friend.” 

“Yeah, who says that?”

“Emori.”

“Damn grifter, Murphy and I are having words after this. I swear, my brother needs to keep his people in check. I do all the work around here,” she mutters, angrily pulling a switchblade out of her boot. He only has time to feel slightly alarmed before she’s flipped it open then closed, repeating the action over and over like an impulse. “Okay, yeah, it’s not a secret Emerson and his crew don’t get along with us. We’ve been banned from all of the Mountain’s territory, and they’re not allowed in any of ours. Which suits me fine, what kind of shitty name for a gang is the Mountain Men? They can go fuck themselves.”

He barely stops himself from smiling again. “So if you have a mutual agreement to stay away, what’s with the tension lately in neutral territory?”

She looks up to meet his eyes, abandoning the butterfly she’s been carving into the side of the bar. All for the best, as if Jasper or Monty noticed they’d be pissed. Her expression is curious, eyes narrowing. “Been around enough to notice? You’re in one of my neighborhoods, there’s no dissention there,” she waves a dismissive hand in the general direction of his house. 

Excluding the fact that he was now going to have to move, she was right, he had been involved in her mess of a gang circle much too often lately. Hey, he’d taken the case. He could’ve pawned it off on Anya or Lexa, but he wasn’t one to give up on something. It wasn’t because he got to see her. In fact it was a problem he had to see her. 

So he shrugs. “Here and there. You avoided my question.” 

She raises one perfect dark eyebrow. “I simply thought of one of my own. Besides, yours was one you obviously already know the answer to and it isn’t nice to try and fish to see if I’m telling the truth. I don’t like fishers. I thought we were past this, Lincoln. You’re a higher caliber of person and I’d rather not have to shoot you.” 

He sighs. “And I thought you were past threatening to shoot me, Octavia.” 

She grins, showing all her teeth. “Look at us, reverting to our old ways.”

He needs to salvage this before it goes a way he really can’t have it go. Old ways is picking her up and pressing her back into walls while she bites at his neck. Old ways is pretending not to know her when she comes into his office to pay for a hitman, and as soon as Anya and Lexa leave to discuss the proposal her turning and jumping at him. Old ways is her climbing her way up him and scraping her nails over his scalp while he sucks at her collarbone. Old ways is her soft moan in his ear as he presses fingerprints into her hips.

But no. 

Not today, not ever again. 

“So there has been tension lately in neutral territory,” he says firmly, dragging his gaze from her lips up to her eyes, which are darker. 

He doesn’t deserve this. 

She sighs, returning to her butterfly and breaking eye contact, getting his point. She knows as well as he does that getting involved in the first place was the single dumbest thing either of them have ever done as individuals, let alone as a pair. Letting it happen again would be like signing their own death warrants, his with her brother’s name at the top and hers with whoever first got the balls to point out it’s impossible she’s not giving away secrets to one of the good guys. “Yeah. Tension.”

“Tension being him shooting one of your girls?” 

Any traces of the electricity in the air between them is gone as soon as he says it. He’s not sorry. She isn’t fragile, and he isn’t afraid of hurting her. But she also isn’t stone, and she cares what happens to her people. He sees it in her eyes, the way they get sad.

When she finally speaks her voice is strong. “Fox did nothing wrong, but it’s… impractical to start a war without support from some of the others,” The butterfly is crude, but she keeps working it deeper into the table. 

He’s honestly surprised. He’s never seen Octavia ever back down from a fight. One time he saw her take down a man taller than him with nothing but a broken pool cue. “And you can’t get support?” 

She frowns. “The Mountain Men have been here for a long time. They have long standing agreements with most of the gangs here. No love, but agreements. Breaking ties to fight for one girl who wasn’t even with them is a hard bargain to sell. I wouldn’t take it.” 

This is what he wanted. Octavia has no love for The Mountain Men, and neither do the other gangs. If any of them have dirt on Carl Emerson, he can bring the entire operation crashing down. He’s damn sure that benefits Octavia. 

He leans forward, resting his arms on the bar and getting a closer look at her butterfly. “Here’s what I propose,” he says, pretending to be very interested in her creation. “I’ll get rid of Emerson for you.”

“With what, your charming good looks and intimidating stare?” she snorts. “Look, as much as I appreciate the male hero bullshit, I actually don’t, at all, so no thank you.” 

It’s his turn to roll his eyes. “Please, it’s not for you, it’s mutually beneficial. I’ve known you long enough to know you don’t need saving.”

She’s silent long enough that he finally glances up from the butterfly to see her studying him, eyes narrowed and curious, drumming her chipped black nails on the wood of the bar. She seems to come to a decision, crossing one leg over the other, putting her elbow on the bar and her chin in her hand so her face is inches from his. “Alright, I’ll bite. What do you need from me?”

“How do you know I need-”

“If you didn’t need something from me you wouldn’t be here,” she smiles through her fingers. 

“I want you to give me anything you have on Emerson. Everything. Then leave it to me.”

She doesn’t scoff, just continues to search his face. “You know the price of information in our business is high,” It isn’t a demand, it’s a fact. 

He keeps his expression serious, even though he can smell her hair and it’s bringing back more memories they need to forget. It was dangerous to meet her, but if he has any chance he needs what she has. “Think of it as a long term investment.”

He knows she knows what she’ll get already. With Emerson out of the way she can take their turf. Access to the harbor without having to pay. 

“If Emerson finds out he’ll be after my head, and Bellamy will start a war,” she says simply. She’s right, her brother is just as dramatic as she is when it comes to being overprotective. 

“I’m asking you to trust me, Octavia.” 

It’s possibly the worst thing to do in their world. You can trust yourself, in your judgement of other’s characters and motivations. You can trust those you pay to listen to you. You can trust if you put a gun to someone's head they’ll do what you say. There is a difference between leverage and love. There is no place for blind trust. In a world where everyone is looking for an upper hand, money, drugs, booze or sex and why would anyone do anything out of the goodness of their heart?

“Okay,” she breathes, and he almost wishes she had laughed in his face and stormed out. Even if she’d shot him it would’ve hurt less, even if he’d have to apologize to Monty and Jasper for bleeding on their bar. 

Instead, she’s staring right at him unflinchingly, her green eyes big and revealing like they so shouldn’t be, her expression one of the utmost sincerity. Open. Not the teasing but guarded little trysts they’ve had before. This is real, genuine emotion, and he’s so fucked he might as well go find Bellamy now and get it over with. 

Her phone buzzes. She shakes herself and looks away to check it, breaking the connection for the second time. She’s business again and for a second it bewilders him how fast the change was. He recovers quickly. Or at least appears to on the outside. He wonders if she’s panicking inside as well. Her face gives away nothing. “I will get you what I have and try to drag up some more as soon as I can,” she promises, tucking the pocket knife back in her boot and jumping off the bar stool. 

He starts to turn in his seat to watch her go but finds himself frozen in place as a series of things happen all at once. The edge of her coat hits her beer bottle, sending it flying over the opposite edge of the bar in an amazing acrobatic feat. This causes Monty to squeak in alarm and hurry over, descending out of sight to pick up the shattered glass. In the flurry of movement and momentary chaos, he feels her lips against his cheek for a bare second, soft and warm, her hair brushing his face and neck. Then she’s a good two feet away, peaking over the bar to survey the damage and leaving him to wonder if he just had an elaborate hallucination. He’s pretty sure he didn’t, but he pushes his drink far away just in case. 

“Monty, I’m sorry, but I have to run,” she calls down.

Monty pops up. “Hey, no problem, happens all the time,” he says hurriedly. 

She falls back down on her boots, starting for the door. “Thanks for the drink, Lincoln!” she tosses over her shoulder. 

He wasn’t too busy watching her hips move to understand what she just did. Monty would never make the woman who ran this neighborhood pay, but if she left Lincoln to pay then her drink was not going to be free. 

He sighs and fishes out some cash for Monty, who’s grinning. 

“Hey,” Monty says as Lincoln stands up to go. He’s holding a rag full of the glass from the broken bottle. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Lincoln sighs. “Thanks, Monty.” 

Oh, where were you two months ago, Monty?

He walks out just in time to see her and four armed men clearly about to raid the building directly across the street from the bar. She spots him, grins and gives him a two fingered salute as she pushes the door open with her boot behind her, leading the way in to deliver whatever message she has for the occupants of the place. 

He’s got a pretty good idea of what it is as he walks away to the sound of gunfire. 

He really doesn’t deserve this.

**Author's Note:**

> I had an incredibly awful time naming this for some reason so thanks to everyone who suggested things to me and put up with my spitballing and now has to see that I ignored everyone and named it myself randomly. It was not because no one suggested anything good. One of the songs suggested to me as inspiration, Kinda Outta Luck, is still stuck in my head because I thought it fit the story so well.


End file.
